


Straight Adjacent

by flashbangtechnicolor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Heterosexual Derek, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Sexual Identity, kinda cracky?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2571671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashbangtechnicolor/pseuds/flashbangtechnicolor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s brow furrows, face scrunching into a frown. “You’re bisexual,” he says, but with a tinge of uncertainty.</p>
<p>A cloud of breath twists out in little wisps of vapor as Stiles chokes out a laugh. “I am?” he says, affecting that faux-shocked sarcasm that seems to spill out of that unfiltered mouth like it’s an actual reflex, something Stiles literally can’t control. “Someone should have told me!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight Adjacent

Stiles rolls back on his heels, teeth scraping lightly over Derek’s lower lip as he detaches from the kiss.

Derek blinks. “I’m straight,” he says.

Stiles’ mouth quirks, the ghost of a smile. “So am I.”

Derek’s brow furrows, face scrunching into a frown. “You’re bisexual,” he says, but with a tinge of uncertainty.

A cloud of breath twists out in little wisps of vapor as Stiles chokes out a laugh. “I am?” he says, affecting that faux-shocked sarcasm that seems to spill out of that unfiltered mouth like it’s an actual reflex, something Stiles literally can’t control. “Someone should have told me!”

Derek’s frown contorts into a full-on scowl. “What, you’re not?” he grumbles irritably. Then, in pursuit of a more promising line of argument, “I – you _kissed_ me!”

Stiles huffs, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. “Yeah, ok. But that’s different. You’re like, _really_ pretty, dude. You know?”

Derek’s face does something incredibly complicated, eyebrows twitching and nose crinkling, before finally settling on a sort of pained resignation. “I don’t . . . Stiles . . .”

For some confusing reason, Stiles seems to take this as a tacit agreement and barrels on. “I’ve been through this already. Up here.” He raps his knuckles against the side of his head, eyes wide as he stares up at Derek unblinkingly, intensely earnest. “I’ve questioned, and wondered. And queried.”

Derek’s eyebrows twitch a little more. “Queried,” he parrots tonelessly.

Stiles nods. “Yeah. All of those questions guys ask themselves at some point, man. Like, do gay guys find me attractive? Are abs just sexy to _have_ , or are they sexy on other dudes, too? What would a werewolf dick feel like up my ass?”

Derek coughs, the tips of his ears burning bright pink. “Uh. That seems a little specific,” he says.

Stiles scratches at his chin, gazing off into the distance as though this is something he’s just _now_ considering. “Fair enough.” He shrugs. “Point still stands. I’ve thought about all of this. I don’t need to run through it again.” He pauses, frowns. Adds, “Although I guess I’d be willing to pretend, if that’s what you need. Like, while you’re still in the gay panic phase.”

“Gay p–” Derek cuts off with a groan, pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on. “Stiles, I’m not–”

“It’s no big deal,” Stiles continues cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to Derek’s discomfort. “You can call yourself whatever you like.” He blinks, getting that look in his eye like he’s having an epiphany. “Wait. Is that what this about? Just, the label?” His mouth falls open in the shape of an O, hazel eyes turning big and round like saucers.

Derek stares at him. “I feel like this conversation is getting away from me,” he says helplessly.

Stiles sighs and places a heavy hand on Derek’s shoulder. It’s more than little disconcerting how that simple gesture makes Derek feel more relaxed, the teen’s touch felt like a burning warmth through the thin fabric of Derek’s Henley. “You think of yourself as straight,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a child.

Derek’s eyes narrow. “I _am_ straight,” he growls.

“I believe you,” Stiles says calmly.

It takes every ounce of Derek’s willpower to keep from rolling his eyes. Then he realizes that there’s nothing actually stopping him, so he does. “Stiles . . .”

“No, listen.” Stiles snatches Derek’s hands away from where they’re covering his face like a protective shield and clutches them to his chest. The werewolf’s cheeks are flushed red with embarrassment. The boy grins, his thumb rubbing softly over the back of Derek’s balled up fist. “I like you,” he says. Snorting at Derek’s disbelieving expression, he amends, “I have come to like you. And you have learned to tolerate me to the point that you no longer look like you want to throttle me every time we’re near each other.”

“Have I?” Derek says doubtfully. Stiles lets go of his hands and punches his shoulder playfully.

“You have,” he says, with eerie confidence. A pause, three seconds, and he deflates, shoulders slumping and gaze turned downward, looking much more like the awkward kid Derek first met in the woods those few years ago, and less like the self-assured college student who had, mere minutes earlier, walked up to him in across the snowy yard and kissed him full on the mouth like it was something they’d been building up to forever.

Which . . . now that Derek thinks about it . . .

He shakes his head brusquely, dismisses those intrusive thoughts. “You’re younger than me,” he says, wincing at how he _already_ sounds like he’s starting to relent. Like this _isn’t_ something that came right out of left field and knocked him for a loop.

Stiles perks up, that hint of nervousness erased from his face in an instant. His mouth twists up at the corners, and Derek has to give himself a mental kick in the head to stop from tracking the movement with his eyes. “Nuh uh. Not gonna work with me, buddy. This ass is legal. Your werewolf peen need no longer fear the forbidden fruit of my untapped, jasmine-scented fuck hole. We are well within the bounds of the law here, my friend.”

Derek blanches. “What.”

“Admittedly, my father might still have concerns,” Stiles concedes with slight nod, biting his lip and humming thoughtfully. “But that’s just because I will always be his precious baby boy, and he really won’t be able to resist pulling out the whole papa bear protective thing, what with the guns on the table and the ‘I have a shovel, your pelt would make a nice rug‘ spiel.”

Derek feels like he might start crying. “I am so very uncomfortable right now.”

Stiles scoffs. “Eh. You’ll be alright.”

Derek closes his eyes and counts to ten, breathing slowly. There’s a chance, surely, that this is all some excruciatingly confusing hallucination, and when he opens his eyes, Stiles will be gone.

He opens his eyes. And promptly jerks back and cringes as his head bops against the trunk of a tree. Stiles is standing right up in his space, grinning like a lunatic. There’s heat radiating off of him, off both of them; he’s not quite touching Derek, but close enough that the werewolf can feel the boy’s breath against him.

He shivers.

“I’d like to try and skip all the stupid bits,” Stiles says, and he’s no longer grinning. He sounds about as serious as Derek’s ever heard him. Or at least since there was last a cause for seriousness; the last time either of them, or one of their friends, was covered in blood.

Derek swallows thickly. “The stupid bits?” he breathes.

Stiles’ eyes follow the bobbing lump in his throat, flicker up to settle on his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “The stupid bits. Where you tell me I don’t know what I want. Or that I don’t understand how I’m somehow  _wrong_ for wanting what I want, like you’re so undesirable. That I should wait to fall for someone else because this will pass in time.”

“Stiles,” Derek says weakly. He places a hand against the boy’s chest like he’s going to push him away, but doesn’t. He leaves it there, trembling against the soft fabric of the cotton shirt, feeling the double thump of Stiles’ heartbeat thrumming low and steady inside the warmth of a still-growing, still-changing body.

“The stupid bits where you say you’re no good for me, that you’re tainted and broken and you don’t deserve to be trusted with my heart. Or with my body.” Stiles’ hand lifts and closes over Derek’s, threading their fingers together and resting against his chest. All the while his heart still beating steady. “All the excuses. All the tactics to push me away, to make me resent you or distrust you. All the doubts that I only want you for your looks or because I’m figuring myself out.”

“That’s not why?” Derek interjects, surprising himself a little, not realizing until the words are out of his mouth just how badly he actually needs to hear that last part affirmed a second time.

Stiles shakes his head, doesn’t even hesitate. “That’s not why,” he says, and it’s like a weight lifted from Derek’s shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was fucking _there_ in the first place.

Derek takes a deep, shaky breath, exhales through his nose. “So then . . . why?” he says slowly.

“Because we could be good together,” Stiles says, as simply as that.

Derek closes his eyes, tilts his head back against the solid line of the tree trunk. “I’m straight,” he mutters. Then, before Stiles can pile on, “I’ve never wanted that. With another guy. It’s never crossed my mind, not in any serious way.” He opens his eyes, looks at Stiles. “Really, truly.”

It’s insane, _infuriating_ , how unfazed Stiles looks. “I know,” he replies. Rolling forward again on the balls of his feet, his steps up on his toes and slants his mouth against Derek’s, murmurs, “We’ll figure that out as we go along.”

The flavor of his mouth is chocolate candy and Coca-Cola, a hint of mint toothpaste lingering in the aftertaste. The boy’s tongue runs along the row of Derek’s teeth, and the werewolf can sense his fangs sliding out at the touch, tries to reel them in.

Stiles’ body is a solid line of heat and lean muscle against his front, heartbeat thrumming against Derek’s until the two sync up. When they stop for breath, Derek feels a small damp splotch wetting through his underwear, right up at the zipper of his jeans. He grimaces and adjusts himself, pointedly ignoring Stiles’ smirk.

“Ok,” he says drily. “Maybe I’m straight adjacent.”


End file.
